


A Few Brief Moments

by disapparater



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bottom Harry, Drinking, Getting Together, Healer Harry, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Memories, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Past Tense, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Present Tense, Remix, Repressed Memories, Top Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-12 21:05:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1200523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disapparater/pseuds/disapparater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco remembers his life with Harry, until he forgets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Few Brief Moments

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sleeping Dragon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/484380) by [Omi_Ohmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy). 



> **Disclaimer:** All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended. The original story, ‘Sleeping Dragon’, belongs to omi_ohmy.
> 
>  **Author's notes** : Although this is technically a prequel, I strongly recommend you read "Sleeping Dragon" first. To do otherwise would be doing both stories a disservice.
> 
> Omi_Ohmy, I could't stop thinking about your story. All the snippets of their life together made me picture these scenes, but ultimately there was one question I needed answering: What happened to Draco?
> 
> Bucket loads of thanks to my beta, who put up with me being very demanding and stressing a lot over this one.

Saturdays are suddenly, inexplicably and worryingly becoming the highlight of Draco's week. Regardless of old Mrs Moss (do all Muggles smell of piss?), the household chores and a lack of magic, Draco enjoys himself. He doesn't list Potter, because Draco is not an idiot; he knows it's the bickering and mock offence they engage in that he enjoys so much.

Draco also enjoys moments like this. He smiles as he watches Potter teetering on a small stool with his arms stretched up trying to change the light bulb in Mrs Moss's kitchen. The daft old bat doesn't own a step ladder, and as Potter isn't allowing Draco to use magic to wash the pots, Draco is adamant Potter is not to use magic to change the light bulb.

Blown light bulb in hand, Potter leans to put it down on the counter. As he does, he loses his centre of gravity and flails his arms madly, trying to regain his balance. To Draco's delight he also lets out a high pitched squeal of fear. He doesn't fall, but really, the worst damage is done.

“Was that a shriek for help?” Draco dries his hands and holds one out to Potter.

“It was a manly bellow, actually,” insists Potter.

Instead of handing him the old bulb, as Draco had expected, Potter reaches out and grasps Draco's hand with his free one. He uses Draco to steady himself as he leans down to discard the blown bulb and pick up the new one.

For some reason, Draco doesn't pull away or attempt to over-balance Potter or even make a disparaging comment. By the time Draco realises this and decides that he _should_ , Potter is already standing up straight and letting go of his hand.

“Thanks,” Potter says as he reaches back up to replace the bulb.

Draco looks down at his hand before returning to the washing up.

~ 

“Pint of whatever guest ale they have on please, Harry.”

Draco calls him Harry about half the time, and it's not even weird now. When they're being nice to each other or they want a favour from one another, they are Harry and Draco. When they are bickering or in a bad mood, they are Potter and Malfoy. It works.

When Harry is buying him a drink, Draco even remembers to say please.

Saturday afternoons at the pub are a given now. Draco has lost count of the drinks he's had with Harry. After almost a year of buying toilet roll and pork pies for a delighted old lady and relaxing over a pint or two together afterwards, they have even had occasion to drink and talk with each other's friends. It's all very civilised.

Harry returns and places an amber-looking pint in front of Draco. They sit facing each other and talk for a while of inconsequential things before falling silent to savour the last of their drinks and observe the other patrons of the pub. It is these moments of comfortable silence that Draco enjoys the most. He and Harry have come far enough through their hatred, indifference and steady truce to now actually be content to sit quietly and simply enjoy each other's company.

After Draco upends his pint glass to drink the very last of his beer, he finds Harry looking at him. His face is open, his eyes are clear and his cheeks are a little rosy considering they've only had one drink. Draco smiles and Harry smiles back.

~ 

Tonight the pub is almost unbearably loud with the raucous sound of young adults getting pissed and talking to each other at an exaggerated volume. From where he sits at the end of a line of tables, Draco can see Blaise and Ginny having a drinking contest, Millicent and Neville cheering them on, Greg and Ron having an earnest discussion involving a lot of arm movements, Pansy and Luna playing darts and Daphne and Hermione whispering seriously about he-doesn't-want-to-know-what.

This kind of thing has been going on for long enough that it shouldn't cause Draco to pause for thought, but occasionally he catches himself mentally standing back from it all and marvelling at this group of people. His friends.

There is laughter from beside him and he turns. Harry is watching him.

“What?”

“You seemed miles away. How many drinks have you had?”

“A couple—I'm not drunk.”

“A likely story. What were you thinking about?”

Draco turns to look out at everyone again with wide eyes. “Them,” he says simply.

When he looks back at Harry, he's frowning.

“Sometimes I wonder how this is possible. How we're not all shouting and yelling at each other.”

Ron chooses this moment to shout across at Blaise that he'd better not be getting his sister drunk.

With a smile, Harry kindly points out, “We _are_ shouting at each other.”

“You know what I mean, though.”

“Draco, you think too much.”

“It's been said. But really, someone has to compensate for the fact that you don't.”

Harry pushes Draco aside in mock outrage, and while they are both laughing Harry lets his hand linger on Draco's arm.

It's moments like this that Draco wonders if Harry might like him, too.

~

It will happen tonight, Draco is determined. He's determined because he is also sure. As sure as anything else he's ever been sure of in his life (which isn't much, but he's not dwelling on that). Draco is sure Harry likes him. What else can all the lingering touches, longing looks and flirting mean? Well, Draco's pretty sure it's flirting. Well, Draco's pretty sure it's Harry's _attempt_ at flirting.

It doesn't matter. It's happening tonight.

Pansy and Blaise moved in together two long weeks ago, and while everyone was desperate for them to have a house warming party they insisted they only wanted their new home wreaked once this year, so held out to host a New Year's Eve party instead.

It's 11:30 pm now and the party is in full swing. Draco picks up his second glass of champagne (really, who wants to wait until midnight?) and weaves through the crowded kitchen out into the garden. It won't be as busy out here until nearer to 12, but he knows Harry—knows he likes space.

For a few minutes he just stands to the side of the back door, in the shadows, and watches. Harry is chatting idly with Luna and Greg. He has a glass of champagne next to him, but it's untouched. He's drinking from the bottle of beer in his hands. Harry's cheeks and nose are red from the cold—the stupid git has forgotten to cast a warming spell—but he's smiling.

Draco is tempted to wait until the countdown to approach, but the decision is taken out of his hands when Harry suddenly turns and spots him in the shadows.

“Draco, come join us,” says Harry, and, as Draco steps out of the darkness, asks, “Are you drinking champagne already?”

“Really, who wants to wait until midnight?” He takes a seat next to Harry, placing his half-empty glass of champagne on the table, but keeping a firm grip on the stem.

“I do.” Harry looks down at his full glass of champagne.

“They're not going to run out, you know. I'm sure Pansy has the spare room full of bottles.”

Harry just shrugs. “I just want it to be special.” He places his empty beer bottle on the table, skimming his knuckles across the back of Draco's hand none too subtly.

Draco wants to outright ask, 'Is this you flirting with me?', but can't quite manage it. He looks at his watch. He'll find out in about 20 minutes, anyway.

When Draco looks back up at Harry, Harry seems ready to speak again, but is thwarted by a loud, obnoxious, ruining-the-moment, shit-faced-drunk Neville.

“Drarry!” cries Neville as he sits/falls down opposite Draco and Harry.

Draco has never hated Neville as much as he does right now.

“What?” asks Harry politely. “Who?”

“Dra'o an' 'Arry!”

“Closer,” Draco whispers so only Harry can hear. He's rewarded with a quiet chuckle and an amused side-eye.

They are left babysitting the drunkard until shortly before midnight, when the garden begins to get crowded. Taking the first opportunity he gets, Draco grabs Harry's wrist and pulls him into the throng.

“Come on, I want a good spot to see the fireworks from.”

“But, Neville—”

“He'll be _fine_ , I'm sure _someone_ will make sure he doesn't drown in his own vomit.”

Instead of a response, Draco feels Harry twist his wrist until they are holding hands, and lets himself be pulled. Now Draco really is sure.

Draco doesn't know where he's leading Harry, he just wants them to be alone. Or, as alone as they can be in whilst surrounded by other people. When he hears everyone shout, “Ten!” he stops and turns to face Harry.

They don't speak. They listen to everyone counting down the new year. They look into each other’s eyes. The moment stretches on, and everything around them seems to dim and get brighter at the same time.

Draco's not even sure he hears everyone yell, “Happy New Year!” but he can see the flashes of the fireworks from beneath his eyelids. Because he's closed his eyes and leaned in. And everything else stops because he and Harry are kissing.

The roaring in Draco's ears is gone by the time they pull apart and Draco realises it's because the fireworks have finished. (Except they're really just starting.)

Draco has both of Harry's hands in his and can only say, “You forgot your champagne.”

Harry smiles at him. “I don't need it.”

~

Saturdays aren't Draco's favourite day of the week any more. He enjoys any day he gets to see Harry, which is every day, if he wants to. They meet for lunch at the hospital or the lab, they go out for dinner or order take away at night, they share a late breakfast on Sundays. Saturday is still their day, though, even if they have had to adapt it somewhat to meet their new needs.

Draco and Harry have been in the living room with Mrs Moss all morning sorting through and organising her extensive (and messy) book collection. She has some large tomes which she can't even lift any more, but insists she will re-read one day.

Being within sight and earshot of Mrs Moss, Draco has not had the opportunity to annoy or bicker with Harry, and worst, he hasn't touched or kissed him for several hours. How is he supposed to work in these conditions?

“Oh,” Mrs Moss cries, “put Clarissa on the coffee table; I'll read a bit of that later with a cup of tea.”

When Harry reaches for the book at the same time as Draco and their hands overlap, Draco knows he can't take it much longer.

“Mrs Moss,” says Draco. He squeezes the back of Harry's hand before letting it go and allowing Harry to pick up the book. “Mrs Moss, the third volume of Jean-Christophe seems to be missing. I feel sure I saw it upstairs in the spare room, I'm going to go and check.”

As Draco stands to leave he catches Harry's eye, stares hard, inclines his head slightly and hopes Harry gets the hint.

Draco only stands on the upstairs landing for a few minutes before Harry is rushing up the stairs after him.

For a few minutes they don't talk. They just enjoy a stolen moment together to hold each other and kiss. When they finally stop, they are both smiling.

“Missed you,” says Harry, resting his forehead against Draco's cheek.

“I've been right beside you the entire morning,” Draco points out.

Harry replies by nipping at his jaw, then soothes it with a kiss. Draco grins into Harry's ear.

“How'd you get out?”

“Said I needed the toilet. Did you find the book?”

“No.”

“Then where is it?”

“Under the stool in the living room. I'll make the miraculous discovery about 10 minutes after we go back down.”

Harry laughs against Draco's neck and it's perfect.

What's not perfect is the knowing smile Mrs Moss gives them as they return to the living room.

~

They've been dating for almost six months and they're in love. They've even said it out loud.

“I love you,” says Draco, because he can, and it's true.

Harry smiles. “I love you too.”

Not wanting to get too soppy, Draco says, “Good,” and nods once against his pillow before burrowing down into the quilt, ready to be asleep.

Apparently Harry's not ready to sleep.

“So, I've been thinking about moving.”

Draco cracks open the one eye he still has above the quilt and uses it to look Harry up and down.

“You should, that position looks uncomfortable.” Which it does; Harry is laying away from Draco with his book in his hands, but is twisting at the waist to turn around and face Draco.

Rolling his eyes, Harry abandons his book and turns his whole body to face Draco.

“I'm serious. I've had this flat for a couple of years, but I think it's time.”

“To move.”

“To move to Grimmauld Place.”

“The old Black house?”

“Yes.”

“You think it's time to move to a dingy old house full of boggarts and ghouls and dark artefacts?”

“I think it's time to move in with you. Besides, it's not that bad any more, it's just needs redecorating.”

Draco raises his one visible eye's brow. Then his brain catches up to the first part of what Harry said and his whole head emerges from beneath the quilt.

“You think it's time to move in what?”

“With you. Do you want to be in charge of decorating the study or the drawing room?”

Harry is grinning, if a little uncertainly, and Draco is staring in shock. He recovers quickly, though.

“The drawing room, obviously; it's the room the guests will see and needs to be perfect.”

The uncertain grin on Harry's face becomes elation and he rolls on top of Draco with a squeal of delight, completely ruining/making the moment. Draco laughs and wraps his arms around Harry, kissing him firmly.

~

Draco paces in his bedroom at the manor. He's been doing it all morning. He walks towards the door, determined, before changing his mind at the last minute and turning swiftly to walk back in the other direction.

He needs to tell them.

Half of Draco's belonging have been moved to Grimmauld Place already. Draco sleeps there at night. Draco _lives_ there now.

Draco needs to tell his parents. He needs to tell them that he's gay. That he's gay and is moving out of the manor and in with his boyfriend. That he's gay and is moving out of the manor and in with his boyfriend, Harry Potter.

There is none of this that will go well.

Draco charges towards the door with renewed determination, sure he'll open it and go downstairs to his parents and tell them. He reaches his hand out towards the door knob. Instead he snatches his hand back as he turns away.

He can't tell them.

Draco has been working hard since the war to restore the Malfoy name. He's doing his Potions mastery, he's being seen at all the appropriate charity events and Ministry functions and he's even volunteering with bloody Muggles. He knows his parents expect him to marry an acceptable witch and produce an acceptable heir. Instead he's moving in with his speccy boyfriend and having amazing anal sex.

He has to tell them.

As much as he fears his parents' wrath, he fears life without Harry (and that amazing anal sex) more.

He stands in front of his bedroom door, as sure as he can be that he will tell his parents. Yet he still can't reach out and open the door.

Draco has snuck out of the bed he shared with Harry early this morning to come to the manor. He and Harry have talked about it. Harry knows his parents don't know about them, and he knows why. He's not overjoyed about it, but he understands and he doesn't pressure Draco to tell them. Which is exactly why, over the course of the few weeks they've been moving into Grimmauld Place, Draco has decided it is time to tell them. But now he's wondering if it was a bad idea to leave Harry sleeping peacefully to sneak off and do it alone.

It's then, as Draco is frowning down at the doorknob and regretting the fact that he let Harry sleep, that the doorbell rings.

Having lived his whole life at the manor, Draco didn't even know it had a doorbell; no one had ever had the gall to just shown up unannounced before, and certainly not at the front door when they have a Floo for receiving guests.

Which is why, suddenly, Draco's hand is whipping his door open and he is rushing down the stairs and shoving the house-elf out of the way as it opens the front door and then he's staring at Harry standing on the door step.

“What are you doing?” Draco hisses.

Harry shrugs, but looks pleased with himself. “I couldn't let you do it alone.”

All the anxiety and fear and hesitation drops from Draco's body. This is why he couldn't do it. This is why he regrets leaving Harry in bed. He needs—he wants—Harry beside him when he tells his parents.

Draco smiles and pulls Harry inside by his jumper.

“Thank you,” he murmurs against Harry's lips before he pulls away. “How did you know?”

“You've had that distant look in your eyes a lot the last couple of weeks. The one you get when you're thinking too much. With the move and all, I assumed you might finally be deciding to tell your parents about us.”

“Stop being so perceptive and clever, Harry, it's not normal.”

Harry laughs at him, but before he can defend himself, there are other voices from across the hall.

“No one uses the doorbell,” says Draco's father. “Why do we even have a doorbell, for Merlin's sake?”

“Draco?” calls his mother. “Who was at the door?”

Taking a deep breath, Draco slips his hand into Harry's and turns to face his parents.

“Harry Potter, my boyfriend, was at the door.” Draco pauses, and when his parents don't react, he clarifies. “Mother, Father—I'm gay. Harry and I are moving in together.”

It's another few seconds, enough time for the moment to get extremely awkward, before his mother turns and walks away.

“This calls for a pot of strong tea,” she calls out behind her.

~

The willow tree's branches are still, falling all the way to the grass and hiding the trunk from view. Draco smiles, knowing that's not all they hide.

Draco had been running, but now he walks slowly towards the tree, even though he can barely wait to be under its shadow. He only now realises he was so eager to get away from Hermione and Terry to spend time with Harry that he's left his lunch at the lab. He can't bring himself to care; if he had remembered to bring it, it would only be laying forgotten on the grass soon enough.

He reaches the tree and, this close, he can make out Harry's form sitting on the grass near the tree trunk. He's eating a sandwich and flicking through a book. Draco smiles, knowing that Harry is using his lunch break to cram in some studying because Draco distracted him from doing any last night with some well placed kissing, licking, sucking...

And now Draco is distracting himself.

Reaching out, Draco parts the branches in front of him and steps into the shelter of the willow tree. Harry looks up.

“Hey.” He smiles at Draco, but doesn't get a chance to say anything more.

Draco pulls Harry to his feet before pushing him back against the tree trunk. Harry's book falls to the grass beside the remainder of his lunch.

“Hey,” Draco replies, before pressing his lips to Harry's.

Their bodies are pressed firmly together, and their lips move slowly, but surely. The kiss is both leisurely and heated and Draco never wants to leave the privacy of their green-curtained hideaway.

Draco doesn't know how long they stand, leaning against the tree, kissing, but he knows this is a moment he will never forget.

~

As he stands at the top of the stairs, Draco can't help but notice how bare the walls are. It makes the walk downstairs in the mornings dull are dreary, and the walk upstairs at night dark and depressing.

He recognises that he has been feeling down generally, lately, but doesn't let that fact stop him from assessing the stairs in an objective manner: The stairs are boring.

Without moving from his spot, Draco glances at the walls of the stairs and wonders what might make the trips up and down more interesting. Artwork? Photographs? Some snazzy wallpaper? Neither he nor Harry had taken on the job of decorating the hallways, instead putting their efforts into the rooms they would spend extended periods of time in. They hadn't even considered the hallways, but now Draco is seriously considering the stairs.

He makes his way slowly down to the ground floor, taking in the elegant but bare wallpaper and the fact that it made him feel... nothing. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he turns and looks back up the way he has come. The stairs are not inviting; he does not want to make the trip back up them.

Instead, Draco wanders into the living room and collapses on the sofa. Saturdays aren't the same any more. It has been more than three weeks since Mrs Moss's funeral and Draco still curses her for dying—his Saturdays are so dull now. He is also getting things in his eyes occasionally since the funeral, obviously they need to clean the house more thoroughly, if there is so much dust floating around.

Just thinking about dust seems to irritate Draco's eyes, so he jumps up from the sofa and wanders over to the small bookcase to occupy himself. As he glances over the titles, his eyes come across a book on the bottom shelf without any words on the spine. Curious, Draco pulls it from the shelf.

When he opens it he sees that it isn't a book at all; it's a photo album. Draco remembers Harry showing it to him briefly as he had helped him pack up the things from his old flat. On the first page is a man the spitting image of Harry, except his eyes; the woman standing next to him has Harry's eyes.

Draco smiles, suddenly knowing exactly what to do to brighten up the stairs.

Harry doesn't notice until they are heading to bed that night. As they start up the stairs together, Harry stops. Draco knows this is the moment. Harry will ether either love it or hate it.

“What's that?” Harry asks.

“Oh, I decided the stairs were too bare, so I decided to start putting up some photographs.” As Draco speaks, Harry rushes up the stairs, stopping in front of the now framed and hung photo of his parents.

Harry doesn't speak, but he turns to look at Draco with a small smile on his face.

“I thought we could hang photos of family and friends. There's plenty of space, for photos of Teddy as he grows up, for families as our friends have children...” he trails off, still unsure of Harry's reaction.

“I love it, Draco. Thank you.”

They stand on the stairs hugging and kissing in front of Harry's parents for a long time.

~

It is dark, but they have forgotten to shut the curtains before going to bed, so the room is illuminated with moonlight. It isn't bright, but it's enough for this moment.

Draco can see Harry, arching beneath him. Draco can see the sweat gathering at the top of Harry's chest as he moves slowly, agonisingly slowly, in and out of Harry. Draco can see Harry biting his lip, trying not to beg Draco to speed up. Draco can see Harry's hands, fisted in the bed sheets, grasping to reality. Draco can see Harry slowly unravelling before him.

The only thing Draco can't see—won't let himself look at—is Harry's eyes. Not yet.

Shifting slightly, Draco picks up the pace—not too much, but enough for Harry to let a gasp of pleasure escape and for one hand to reach out and cling to Draco's forearm. The motion forces Harry to arch even higher and lean back on his shoulders. Draco watches the sweat at the top of his chest tip and slide down Harry's collar bones.

With one hand, Draco traces his fingers across Harry's chest. He grazes lightly over his nipples and Harry moans, tightening around Draco inside of him, pleading without words for more. Draco obliges by stopping to toy with Harry's nipples. This time Harry's moan is in frustration, but Draco refuses to increase the speed of his thrusts.

Moving again, Draco sits back and pulls Harry with him, still deep inside. He strokes Harry's legs where they lie either side of him, wantonly open. Draco keeps moving his hips in slow, short thrusts, rubbing himself teasingly across Harry's prostate repeatedly. Harry makes the most pained sound of pleasure Draco remembers hearing, and knows he can't wait much longer.

Stroking up Harry's legs one more time, Draco takes one hand up to rest on Harry's abdomen, feeling his muscles, taut with pleasure. The other hand he wraps around Harry's penis. He doesn't move it for another few minutes, just continues to move his hips and concentrate on what his body is feeling. Draco is deep inside Harry, moving slowly and shallowly in and out, Harry laid out before him, tense and almost unmoving—waiting, and Harry's penis, heavy and warm in his hand.

Then Draco begins to move his hand, as slowly as he is moving his hips. Harry's head begins to rock from side to side, and Draco knows he's close to the edge. A little more speed, a touch more pressure, and the spring Draco has tightened in Harry's body will uncoil all at once, leaving Harry crying out everything he's currently biting his lip to keep in.

“Draco,” Harry whispers.

Draco doesn't know if Harry is pleading, cursing or thanking him with his name, but Draco knows it's his own undoing. He can't stop himself from—finally—looking up into Harry's eyes. They are blown wide, in pleasure or from the darkness, Draco isn't sure. In them Draco sees everything: love, respect, passion, longing, trust and pure need.

They both come screaming, before Draco collapses on Harry, both of them covered in sweat and semen. By the time Draco softens and slips from Harry, they are both asleep again.

~

They collapse into dining chairs after safely seeing Teddy home through the Floo, finally getting a moment of peace. He's still young, but is a ball of energy and always manages to knacker both Draco and Harry, even when they tag-team to keep Teddy entertained.

“My feet hate me,” Draco says, remembering all too vividly the amount of times he had to chase Teddy up and down the stairs and around and around the dining room table.

“My ribs hate me,” Harry adds. Draco grins while thinking about Harry throwing Teddy over his shoulder and spinning him around while Teddy squealed with delight.

Their bodies are thoroughly pleased Teddy has gone home.

“I miss him already,” Draco admits.

“Me too.” Harry doesn't hesitate.

“How does Andromeda manage, on her own, every day?”

Harry shrugs, wincing a little and raising a hand to his ribs. Draco waves his wand in the direction of the kettle, desperate for a cup of tea.

“Maybe...” Harry hesitates, but Draco indicates with a small nod that he should continue. “Maybe she doesn't. Manage. Maybe we should offer to help more.”

“Of course we should.” Draco's annoyed with himself for not thinking of it before. “Other than Andromeda, we're his only family; we should—”

“We should adopt him.”

In the wake of Harry's words there is silence for a few seconds, then the kettle begins to whistle and Draco quiets it with another wand movement; he's suddenly not thirsty.

“Adopt him?”

Harry looks at him, really looks. Draco knows he's thinking about previous conversations they have had, as abstract as they may have been, about children and fatherhood. Draco knows this is about more than helping Andromeda or creating a good life for Teddy. This is about him; about them.

“Adopt him,” Draco repeats, more firmly.

“We've discussed before, about taking the name Black. This would be another good reason—a good time. A fresh start for all of us.”

Draco frowns. “Does Teddy need a fresh start?” He shakes his head, clearing his own wants out from the fog Harry's suggestion has created in his mind. He thinks instead about Teddy's needs. “What would us adopting Teddy do for him? Do that we can't already?”

Instead of answering, Harry looks pained, and Draco knows Harry was thinking selfishly too.

“And Andromeda. What would that do to her? She lost her husband and only child—at least we have each other. If we took Teddy from her—”

“We wouldn't be taking him,” Harry seeks to clarify. “She'd still be his grandmother, she'd still be... she'd still...” But the fight has gone out of him; he sighs. “You're right.”

“We're his family, Harry. We can be what we need to be—for him and for us—without official titles or names.”

Harry smiles. “He's already ours.”

Draco nods and smiles back.

~

A shudder passes through Draco and he again wonders how he let himself be talked into this. Then he glances over at Harry, with his rosy cheeks and happy smile, and remembers. He can never say no to Harry when he gets so adorably excited about something, even if that something is a walk along a river on the coldest day of the year.

“Do you want to stop and have a drink? I brought some coffee,” Harry asks as he stops at a bench.

“Oh, Merlin, yes.” Draco drops onto the frosted bench and holds out his hands.

Harry pulls a flask from his bag and pours them each a steaming cup full. Draco cradles his in his hands like a lifeline and sips from it gratefully.

“Are you cold, by any chance?”

Draco doesn't stop drinking, he just nods.

“And apparently I'm the one who always forgets warming spells?”

“I didn't forget,” Draco protests. “It's taken the edge off but in case you missed it, it's _fucking freezing_.”

Snuggling down into his thick scarf, Harry concedes. “It is a bit nippy.”

Draco rolls his eyes and quickly finishes his drink.

After Harry puts the flask away they sit for a little while longer, looking out across the river. The greenery has a layer of white frost and there is no wildlife to be seen. Sensible enough to stay indoors where it's warm, Draco thinks bitterly. He side-eyes Harry, who still seems to be enjoying himself. Draco mischievously decides that this this needs to change.

Shuffling a little closer on the bench, Draco reaches for Harry. Harry is wrapped up safe against the cold in his thick winter coat and has his hands buried deep in its pockets. Draco's hand burrows its way inside and interlaces its fingers with Harry's. Harry's hand is warm against Draco's and a shiver runs up Harry's arm at the coldness of Draco's touch.

Next, Draco rests his head on Harry's shoulder.

“I'm glad we did this,” Draco whispers, his breath so close he can see it steam Harry's glasses.

Harry's head bends slightly to rest on top of Draco's.

“Me too.”

In what passes as a natural movement, Draco turns his face to Harry, sneaking in over his scarf, and pressing his freezing cold nose to Harry's neck. He makes a small snuggling motion, knowing Harry won't push him away when he's being affectionate.

Another shiver passes through Harry, this time from the neck down, and Draco can't prevent his smile. He happily snuggles into Harry a little more.

They remain like that for a few minutes, and Draco can almost say he feels content. Almost, because he is still bloody freezing cold.

Slowly, Draco reaches up with the hand not enveloped in the warmth of Harry's coat and palm. He slowly stokes at the buttons of Harry's coat, toying with them a little. He can feel how relaxed Harry is, and although he can't look, from his position snuggled into his neck, Draco would bet Harry has his eyes closed. So sweet and unsuspecting.

Gradually, Draco slips his hands through a gap between buttons and begins rubbing Harry's stomach over his jumper. Harry hums in contentment, and Draco smiles into his neck.

Draco's strokes becomes lower and lower until he reaches the hem of Harry's jumper. Harry, the cheeky bastard he is, raises his hips a little, expecting something completely different from what Draco is planning.

Moving quickly now, before his hand warms up too much, Draco plunges under Harry's jumper and places the back of his hand on the sensitive skin of Harry's side. Draco can feel the moment Harry's eyes must snap open.

“Ohhhhhhh—okay, stop now you git!” Harry dislodges Draco from his side and grabs Draco's wrist with his free hand, quickly extracting it from beneath his coat. “I get it, I get it—we can go home now.”

Draco smiles innocently at Harry. “Okay then.”

He drags Harry up from the bench and turns back the way they came, hands still clasped in Harry's coat pocket.

~

The house is silent. Draco sits, stiff and still, in the arm chair. He thinks he's waiting for something, but he can't quite remember what, or for how long he's been waiting. Time suddenly seems like an impossible concept. What's the difference between hours and minutes when he's in this much pain?

When the fire roars big and bright as the Floo is activated, Draco realises he's been sitting in the dark. He wonders when the sun went down; wonders if it was ever really up.

“Draco.”

Harry.

And then Harry is there, kneeling on the floor in front of Draco, cradling Draco's face in his hands.

“I'm so sorry, Draco.” Harry uses his thumbs to wipe away tears Draco hasn't realised have escaped his eyes.

Harry already knows. Of course he knows. They will have taken her—taken her to St. Mungo's; every hospital has a morgue.

“Draco, talk to me, please. What happened?” Harry sounds scared, and that's enough for Draco to pull himself together just enough.

He looks at Harry, sees him kneeling in front of him, love and worry written all over his face.

For Harry, Draco finds his voice.

“He found her,” is all he can manage.

“Lucius?” Harry prompts. Draco nods. “Found her where?”

“The parlour. She likes to spend sunny afternoons there reading.” Draco sees Harry's mouth twitch at his use of the present tense, and something else breaks inside of Draco. He didn't think there was anything else left in him unbroken. “Liked,” Draco corrects himself slowly.

“Draco, I—”

“She'd fainted again.” Now he's started, Draco can't let Harry interrupt, can't let himself be consoled before he's finished. “This one must have caught her by surprise, because she didn't make it to a chair. She hit her head. By the time he found her, and had contacted the hospital, and me it was—she was—”

And that's all he has. Draco stops and closes his eyes, unable to accept the love and understanding in Harry's. Instead, he feels Harry's arms around him. Instinctively he returns the embrace, clinging to Harry as the only thing keeping him grounded. The only thing keeping him from completely falling apart, but at the same time, in this moment, the only thing allowing him to completely fall apart.

~

When he steps out of the shower, Draco can only be bothered to towel off his hair and throw on his robe; he'll dry quickly enough in the warmth of the kitchen. Just thinking about Harry down there frying them up some breakfast makes his stomach rumble.

Wasting no time, Draco heads down to the kitchen without even stopping to put on slippers. He smiles; Draco loves Sundays.

As he enters the kitchen the anticipated warmth flows over him and he pauses at the door to savour it. His breakfast is waiting for him on the table, opposite Harry, who has his head hidden behind this morning's copy of _The Daily Prophet_ , but he doesn't dig into it just yet. Draco crosses the room, the coolness of the floor under his feet at odds with the cosy heat of the air. He stops behind Harry, places his hands on Harry's shoulders and leans down to place a kiss below his ear. As he pulls away he catches a glimpse of Harry's smile.

While Harry is distracted for a few seconds, Draco reaches over and locates the crossword page before whipping that single page from Harry's grasp. Harry feigns outrage, as he always does, and Draco grins triumphantly, as he always does. It's simple and silly, but it's their routine. Draco couldn't live without moments like this.

Mission accomplished, Draco finally takes his seat opposite Harry. For a time they are quiet, eating and reading. A short time later, Draco looks up at Harry.

“Involuntary spasm of the diaphragm, six letters.”

Harry finally puts down the paper and goes to put on another pot of coffee.

~

Draco decides to walk home. He does that, now and again, when he's got something to mull over. The air clears his head, allowing him to think clearly, while the slow pace he sets gives him the time. And Draco feels like he needs a lot of time to mull this over.

Terry's casual flirting over the past week has been one (uncomfortable) thing, but for him to come right out and ask Draco on a date—he's _married_ , for fuck's sake— _happily_ , as Terry bloody well knows. What the hell has got into him?

As Draco reaches the front door of Grimmauld Place, he has already decided he has to discuss this with Harry. Terry is (supposed to be) a friend to both of them, and Draco works with him regularly. The fact they he is suddenly hitting on Draco is something that will affect Draco's life with Harry—they are a couple and should deal with things like this together. Whether “deal with” means ignoring, confronting or cutting off Terry, will have to be decided.

Resolved, Draco opens the door and steps inside his home.

That something is different is immediately apparent. Harry should be long home, given the extra time it has taken Draco to walk here, but the lights are dim and there is no movement or sound discernible.

Draco cautiously makes his way down the hallway. As he approaches the stairs he sees candles lighting a path upwards. He smiles; he remembers.

The events of the day had almost driven it from his mind, but it's today. They'd discussed going out, but had decided to put it off until the weekend, choosing instead to spend this evening together at home.

Pushing Terry and his idiocy to the back of his mind, Draco climbs the stairs. He finds that the candles go all the way to the bedroom, and does not hate what Harry obviously has planned.

In the bedroom—lit with yet more candles, Harry is far too romantic (Draco secretly loves it)—Draco finds Harry already in bed. He's laying on his back, the covers pooled at his hips, obviously naked.

Draco's mouth waters as he steps closer, beginning to shed his own clothes as he moves. He's three steps into the room and most of the way to topless before Harry notices him. Instead of a greeting, Harry smiles and watches Draco undress.

Finally, when Draco is naked and sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry speaks.

“Happy anniversary.”

“Happy anniversary, indeed.” Draco leans down and kisses Harry, gentle and slow, before pulling back. He eyes Harry beneath him. “I love my gift, I think I've got the perfect one for you.” He reaches down to holds his penis, just in case Harry doesn't get it.

Harry gets it; he rolls his eyes.

“This is not your gift,” Harry states, and now it's Draco's turn to roll his eyes. Before Draco can make a witty remark, Harry holds Draco's face and looks deep into his eyes. “This is.”

Letting go of Draco, Harry rolls away onto his stomach. And there it is; Harry's gift to Draco. It leaves Draco speechless. Spread across Harry's lower back is the most intricate tattoo Draco has ever seen. Made of what seems to be hundreds of fine lines, a dragon is now permanently etched on Harry's skin. In the soft candle light, the dragon almost seems to move.

“Harry, this is—” But words fail Draco.

“Touch it,” Harry whispers. And Draco does.

As soon as Draco's fingertips graze across the thin tattooed lines on Harry skin, the movement is no longer an illusion. The dragon shifts; its wings stretch up Harry's back and its tail curls around Harry's side.

“It's you,” Harry explains when Draco doesn't speak. “My dragon.”

Draco leans down and places a kiss on the small of Harry's back, right on top of the dragon. In response, the dragon breathes a small fire across Harry's skin.

“I love you.”

With those words, Draco realises he can't tell Harry about Terry. Not now; not tonight. He can't spoil this. He won't. He's not sure if 'this' is this moment, this night or them; maybe all three. He won't give Terry the right to ruin any moment he has with Harry.

“I love you too.”

And then Draco doesn't think about anything but Harry, Harry's body and pleasuring Harry's body for a long time.

~

Draco hums a random tune as he moves around the kitchen. He pulls down flour and sugar from a cupboard before joyfully coating himself and the kitchen in a layer of white—some of it goes in a bowl. He adds milk and eggs, vanilla essence and chocolate chips. It's simple, but it's Harry's favourite.

When the oven is fully pre-heated and the cakes are prepared, Draco slides them in and shuts the oven door. Ready for the clean up, Draco slides over the tiled floor in his socks to the sink, still humming.

It's a burst of laughter that draws Draco's attention, and he turns to the kitchen door to find Harry leaning against the frame, watching.

“How long have you been there?” Draco glances around the room; it's too messy to pretend he _hasn't_ been baking.

“Long enough.”

“Long enough to what? Decide you want to help me clean up?”

“I could never be here long enough for that.” Harry's serious; he never helps Draco tidy a mess he's made.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Watching.” Harry folds his arms and smiles. “You like baking.” He sounds smug.

“I do _not_ like baking,” Draco insists, even as he hates himself for saying it.

“Then why do you do it?”

Draco shrugs. “I don't do it that often. You like cakes. Home-made cakes are so much better than shop-bought. I mean really, Harry.” He busies himself wiping up the flour he always gets everywhere.

Harry is silent for a while and Draco doesn't turn to look at him.

“Okay,” says Harry from only a few feet behind Draco.

Draco turns and finds himself wrapped in Harry's arms.

“Okay, you don't like baking. You should still do it often though, because I do like cakes. And I _love_ watching you bake them.”

“You're bonkers.”

“I don't care.” Harry kisses him and Draco knows there will be plenty more mad moments of baking.

~

It has been a manic day for Draco. He's working over time, doing his day job and consulting on a project with Hermione and Terry. He's been out of the house since 7:00 am and is only just getting home now at almost 9:00 pm. It doesn't help Draco's mood that he got caught out in the heavy rain on his way home. All Draco wants to do is crawl into bed and sleep.

Heaving himself up the stairs, Draco wonders if Harry is already in bed. If he's dozing with the light on or sat up reading. Maybe he's in the bathroom brushing his teeth. Harry is none of those things. When Draco slips through the bedroom door, he sees Harry curled up under the covers, lights out, snoring. Finding his last smile of the day, Draco leaves Harry to sleep while he gets ready for bed.

It's a cold night and Draco clambers gratefully into his pyjamas. He moves as quietly as he can around the room, putting his shoes and belt away and dropping his clothes into the washing basket. As he makes his way to the bed, he catches sight of himself in the window—they never do draw the curtains any more.

Draco is pale—pale even for him—and he looks as exhausted as he feels. The rain streaks against the window and his reflection is slightly blurred, but Draco can't help taking a moment to himself to relax. He hasn't done that at all today. He shivers slightly at the cold, but doesn't yet move.

Busy caught up in his own head space, Draco is surprised when warm arms encircle him from behind. Instinctively he leans back against Harry's chest, soaking in his body heat. Bed mussed brown hair is in stark contrast against Draco's smooth blond hair in the reflection in the window.

 _Now_ Draco finally feels relaxed.

“Missed you.” Harry's voice is rough with sleep. “You coming to bed now?”

Draco nods, knowing Harry will feel the motion. The arms around Draco tighten and he thinks he hears Harry mumble, “Good,” into his neck.

They resume the same position in bed, and Draco falls asleep in Harry's arms, with his light breath on Draco's neck.

~  
~

Draco was sure he only closed his eyes for a few seconds, but it was enough to flood himself with memories. He had felt as though he was really there, reliving every moment.

Back in the present, Terry still had his wand pointed at Draco. He was still making threats and still refused to stand still.

“He's not right for you, Draco—I am.” Terry shook his wand firmly at Draco to emphasise the last two words. “You'll never see that while you're fooling yourself into thinking you _love_ him. But I can sort that out, Draco. I can make you hate him. Then—then you'll see me. Then you can love me.”

Words would be useless, Draco knew. There was no way he was going to talk Terry out of this... this _was_ going to happen. He closed his eyes on Terry, the wand pointed at him and the threats being made. Draco silently made his decision.

He would rather risk losing it all than have his feelings and memories twisted and manipulated. He would rather have the chance to start again with Harry, from the very beginning, than be made to hate him.

Terry was still shouting, but Draco refused to hear him.

Draco thought back once more over the last 12 years of his life with Harry. His thoughts landed on the dragon, Harry's dragon, and the night he decided not to tell Harry about Terry making a move on him. In hindsight, that was probably a mistake.

Draco focused on the dragon. Curled peacefully in sleep until Draco touched it. He pushed the last 12 years of his life inside of that dragon, safe beneath its hundreds of fine lines. His memories, protected by the sleeping dragon. Draco could only hope he would be able to hold onto that dragon, the key—then he and the dragon could wake up together.

He felt his magic, pulsing in his blood. He knew he couldn't draw his wand, and wouldn't know what spell to use if he could. This was pure magical instinct.

He opened his eye to an unfamiliar room and a wand pointed at his face.

When the spell hit Draco, he could feel it in his mind, seeking out thoughts of Harry Potter. It scared Draco enough to Apparate away without thought to where he was Apparating to.

A rotting smell assaulted Draco's nose before he had the time to assess where he was. He struggled to breathe, adrenaline and magic still pulsing through him. He landed heavily, and instantly overbalanced head first into a wall.

He slid down to the floor with the sudden feeling that he had no idea what the hell was going on. Had he just Apparated? Why, and to where? He was weaving in and out of consciousness and must be hallucinating, because he was sure he caught a glimpse of a dragon. Then there was blackness.

Draco opened his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

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